


Too Damn Old for This

by FreshBrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Lives, Background Case, Bisexual Male Character, Friends to Lovers, Gay Bar, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, Loss, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 04, Teen Wolf Rarepair Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills might have its history, but one of the rarely-mentioned footnotes was the fact that it had one of the oldest gay bars in Northern California.  John is oddly proud of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Damn Old for This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rehfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/gifts).



> Hope you like this gift, I had fun writing it! I wish I could've made it a little smuttier but it just didn't fit...perhaps a continuation one day!
> 
> A few small notes: Allison Argent lives because I'm in denial, even though this is set post-season 4, and as fanon agrees, the Sheriff is referred to as John. Some mild but possibly triggering mentions of a homophobic group as well, though brief.
> 
> Beta'd by a personal friend who has an eye like a hawk. If there are any mistakes, they are definitely my own!

Beacon Hills might have its history, but one of the rarely-mentioned footnotes was the fact that it had one of the oldest gay bars in Northern California.  John is oddly proud of it.

And he’s not talking about the club he caught Stiles at during his freshman year follies, the one with too much glitter and colored lights and the sort of music he has nightmares about.  Save that business for the kids; they deserve it.  Hell, if that place had been around when he and Claudia were younger, they would’ve loved it.  _The Jungle_ was just the sort of place parents hated finding their kids at.

The place he’d frequented since his early twenties was towards the edge of town, a simple brick building with a green neon sign advertising pull-tabs and cocktails.  It wasn’t a biker bar or a cop bar, even though bikers and cops alike drank together on Friday nights, and it wasn’t one of those places he read about in crime novels with holes in the stalls and cocaine on the toilet tanks, thank god. 

They just called it _The Bar_. 

“Hey John,” Janice, one of the nurses from Melissa’s pool, called from her spot on the bar with a cheerful wave.  “Haven’t seen you around in a while!”

John gave her a sheepish grin and sat down easily a few stools down from her—the denim jacket draped on the one next to her showed she had some company already.  “It’s been a busy year.”  He was a man prone to understatement but that was ridiculous—between dealing with hit lists, alpha packs, and teenage werewolves springing up like weeds at the high school, his year was one giant pile of weird that certainly put a damper on his bar nights.

“Tell me about it,” Janice said, stirring her drink.  “The hospital seems more like a horror movie these days.”

 _If you only knew_ , John wanted to say, but instead just smiled and nodded at the bartender.  He asked for a beer and as he waited for his drink, he looked around the room at the night’s visitors.  There was something oddly comforting about The Bar and its clientele—something so _normal_ it tugged at John’s gut.  A few women milled around one of the high-top tables, arms around each other.  John recognized a local bank teller and one of the PT’s from the hospital gym.  A group of guys played darts and pool on the other side of the bar, cheerfully tipsy, slapping each other on the backs and laughing.  Tom Petty played on the jukebox and there was an ancient bowl of peanuts and pretzels on the bar at John’s elbow.

“Hey, sheriff,” he heard from his left, and saw a vaguely familiar guy still in his pizza delivery uniform.  “Sorry to bug you, I just…you were on the case when my boyfriend died and you were really great.  It’s nice seeing you here.” He smiled shyly and glanced back to the other end of the bar, where a guy was waiting for him. 

John nodded and shook the guy’s hand, just then realizing where he remembered him from—his boyfriend was one of the kanima’s (he finally got that down, thank you very much) victims from the old Beacon Hills swim team.  He willed that tug in his stomach to go away, but it only felt worse.  “I’m glad to see you’re doing well, son.”

“I am,” he insisted, nodding towards the guy at the bar.  “That’s Tom.  He’s been taking good care of me.”

“Good to know,” John said, and welcomed his tall, frosty glass of Corona.  Beer was never his issue; he could handle a beer once in a while.  But he knew if he was going to run into kids whose lives were ruined by supernatural creatures all night, he’d have to watch himself.  It hit him too hard.  “You should have some fun tonight.  Get that Tom to buy you a drink.”

The guy smiled.  “I’ll work on that.”

John settled back into his beer when the guy walked away, feeling more worn-down than he did moments ago.  It was a quiet week at the station with the usual thefts and small disturbances, nothing wild or tooth-and-nail related, but he was always tired these days.  Not unhappy, not discontent or angry, just _tired_.  Stiles knew where he was—that was never a problem in their many, _many_ miscommunications—and Melissa said she might stop by for moral support, but he felt alone.  Alone and lonely, even those two things weren’t mutually exclusive in his life since Claudia died.

“Is this seat open?” A man sat down before John could answer, but John already knew who it was, though he was certainly unexpected.

“This isn’t your usual haunt, Argent,” John said, nodding to the bartender to get Chris the same beer he ordered.  “Believe me, if you came in here with that leather jacket of yours, I’d hear about it from the guys.”

Chris grinned and clapped John on the back, unzipping his jacket.  Not the usual leather, just coarse grey cotton, but he still looked like a million bucks in it.  John wasn’t too proud to admit it.  “The curse of small-town life,” he said.  “Does it for the ladies, too.  It’s a foolproof jacket.”

John snorted and took a sip of beer.  “Lucky you.”  Argent’s bisexuality was about as much of a secret as his own—after all, they were single parents with kids mature beyond their years, and they both had high-stress and high-danger jobs.  Life was too short to slink into the closet at their ages.  “How have you been lately?  I haven’t seen you around much.”

“Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but let’s take that as a blessing,” Chris said dryly, accepting his beer and throwing a few crumpled ones onto the sticky bar.  “The town’s been quiet, the kids are going to class, and Derek Hale is on vacation with that pretty mercenary.  This is the most peace I’ve had in the last damn year.”

“Cheers to that,” John said, clinking the edge of his glass against Chris’.

“Unfortunately,” Chris said, leaning in towards John with his elbow in the bar, “that ends right about now.” He cocked his head towards the guy who approached John at the bar earlier and his handsome boyfriend Tom.  The boy was nowhere to be seen but Tom was texting furiously, eyes trained on the phone.

John exhaled deeply.  He was in his civilian clothes, off-duty until the next morning, but he always carried in Beacon Hills.  And he would always be a cop at heart, and the prospect of catching some crook in the act made his blood race.  He polished off his beer and wiped the foam off his upper lip with his wrist.  “What’s the plan?”

Chris glanced at the end of the bar, eyes grazing over Tom’s jacket and jeans, and Tom stiffened and looked up.  “The plan,” Chris said with a cough and turned back to John, a slow grin spreading across his handsome face, “is to take this somewhere more private.”  He placed a hand on John’s thigh, fingers dangerously close to the inseam of his jeans. 

John immediately understood, though that didn’t stop him from burning red at the tips of his ears.  “You first.  I’ll follow behind.”

Chris stood, jacket draper over his arm to cover the front of his jeans.  John couldn’t help but laugh to himself—Chris was either an excellent actor or he’d done this before, and John was counting on both those options being true. 

“I feel like I’m back in the eighties,” Janice joked from down the bar, and John went redder as he walked towards the bathrooms amid her laughter.  Before he opened the door, he shot a quick text to Stiles— _anything I should know about_?

“Last on the left,” Chris said once the bathroom door was closed, even though John could see his boots beneath the stall door.  At least it was a clean bathroom—but John still felt too damn old to be checking for shoes beneath stalls.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re working with here, or are you just looking for a thrill?” John slid into the stall next to Chris, idly checking his phone. 

“Funny,” Chris said dryly, and slid a photograph under the stall.  “Take a look at that and tell me if I should be concerned.”

John looked at the blown-up security camera photo of Tom and his boyfriend, the nice kid from the bar, leaning up against a wall outside a liquor store.  Where Tom’s eyes should’ve been staring right at the camera were two black marks, almost like burns, and John sighed.  Right then, his phone beeped and he checked the text from Stiles.

_Don’t think so—we’re chilling at Kira’s.  Why?_

“Yeah,” John said, rubbing a hand down his face.  “We should be concerned.  The kids don’t know about him, and Scott hasn’t mentioned anything…new.” He was careful not to mention the W-word, just in case. 

“A few guys have gone missing around here,” Chris said solemnly.  “Around this bar and _the Jungle_.”

“One dead,” John said, mind reeling back to a case a few months ago where a kid who frequented the Jungle was found in a dumpster with what was supposedly a bad track mark burn on his arm.  This bastard was targeting young gay or bisexual men for something—a pack, a ritual, _something_.  And if there was one thing John had gotten good at over the past few years, it was taking down shitty alpha werewolves with something to prove.  “His boyfriend was here earlier.  We need to find him.”

“Allison’s on it already,” Chris said, his phone chiming.  “The pack knows now.  We’re here for Tom.” He slid out of the stall and stood in front of the sinks.

John raised an eyebrow—Chris’ hands shook a little, his breathing quickened.  “Hey, let’s take a second.  You alright?” He’d seen Chris thrive under such immense pressure; he had a hard time understanding how a possible ruckus in a bar would rattle him.

Chris nodded firmly, hand pressing to his waist, checking to make sure his knives were still strapped there securely.  “Ask me again after this is over.  Are you ready?” He glanced up, meeting John’s eyes in the mirror.

John tentatively gripped Chris’ forearm, the muscle firm, and held his gaze.  “I’m ready, but I need you to be, too.”

The bathroom door clanged open and one of the dart players came in and strode a little clumsily to the urinal, only giving them a raised eyebrow in passing.  Chris turned quickly from the mirror at the noise, almost bumping chest-to-chest into John.  John reached out to brace his fall, hand slipping on the sink.  “Well,” he said with a short laugh as he pulled back, “this really does feel like the eighties.  Okay, let’s head out.”

*

“A gay werewolf pack,” John mused, sitting on the curb in front of The Bar, the blue and red lights of the squad car flashing over his and Chris’ faces.  “What’ll they think of next?”

“I still can’t believe they’re all alive,” Chris said, spitting onto the sidewalk.  “Only one didn’t survive the bite.”  He’d gotten clocked pretty good in the jaw after they had Tom cornered by the pinball machine and away from the drinkers, but he fortunately avoided the claws.  “Six guys, between seventeen and fifty-eight years old, all races and backgrounds.  And now they’re in a pack without an alpha.”

“Good riddance,” John said.  “Taylor said he was an asshole.”  Taylor was the boyfriend who narrowly avoided becoming another notch on Tom’s werewolf belt.  Allison found him knocked out in Tom’s car out behind the bar, unharmed but obviously shaken up, and John spent some time talking to him before Parrish brought him back to the station.  “These guys never had a choice either way.  Just like Scott.”

John looked at Chris.  He didn’t remember if he’d had as much grey in his beard as the last time he saw him, or if his light blue eyes were so sad, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t.  First he lost his wife, and then he almost lost Allison.  But there was a deeper, older pain in there.  “What happened in there?  Before we took Tom down?”

Chris scrubbed a hand down his face and scratched his beard.  “A big part of being a hunter is keeping the tradition.  Victoria and I could only have one child, but we fulfilled our duty in their eyes,” he said, voice cool and distant, staring at the pavement.  “There was no room for hunters who couldn’t create more hunters.”

John knit his brow in confusion for a moment before it suddenly clicked.  “They didn’t accept homosexuality.”  He didn’t know why it surprised him.  He just figured when your life revolved around hunting supernatural beings, there was little time for old-fashioned pettiness.

“If I would’ve found out about Tom and his pack with my family,” he started, then backtracked.  “My _old_ family, they would’ve let Taylor die before taking out the alpha.”  He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and went to work on his blood-stained knife, the scent of wolfsbane strong in the air.  “Cut off all lines of filth, they used to say.”

“Christ,” John said, a burn of anger running through him.  He’d always been lucky on that front—his parents were anything-goes types of people before they passed, and Claudia was bisexual as well.  They were monogamous but always open about their sexualities.  It was _never_ a problem.  But to Chris, it could’ve been deadly.

“Victoria never had an issue with it, but we kept it a secret,” Chris said, sliding his knife back into its sheath.  “Now it’s just me again, and I thought maybe…”

“I thought so too,” John said, nudging Chris with his knee.  The sirens whooped and the ambulance headed out, the crew cleaning everything up outside the bar and talking to the manager.  Things were calming down.  “After Claudia died.  It wasn’t finding the right man or woman, it was just…finding myself.  After.”

Chris nodded and smiled, laughing a little.  “We’re too old for this shit, Sheriff.”

“You bet your ass we are,” John said, and stood, extending his hand to Chris and tugging him up.  “But we’re not too old to go out to the bar and have drinks once in a while, are we?”  Chris paused for a moment, like he was trying to gauge exactly what John meant, and John saved him the questioning.  “And yes, that is me asking you if you’d like to get a drink with me.  As friends or something we can work up to, I don’t care.”  _We just need to not be alone anymore,_ he wanted to say, but knew it could go unsaid and understood.

“I’ve always wanted to come here…before,” Chris said, looking up at the bar.  “I think I’d like that.”  He sighed and let his hand linger in John’s for a moment, warm and a little rough with callouses.  “You’re a good man, John Stilinski.  And in about three seconds, our kids will be barreling into us with a million questions.”

“Dad, oh my _god_ , what happened?” Stiles rambled up to the curb, wheezing and out of breath, still wearing his pajama pants.  Allison was in tow, looking as collected and lovely as always.

“Dad, we need to work on our communication,” she said sternly, but with a smile, then flung herself into Chris’ arms.

 “You have to tell me all about what happened,” Stiles said, hugging John hard, face buried in the crook of his neck.  “You took down an _alpha_!  What a bad-ass!”

“I still got it, kid,” John said, always ready for an opportunity to embarrass his son.  He glanced at Chris over Stiles’ shoulder and winked, and Chris just laughed into Allison’s hair, arm tight around her shoulders.

If they noticed John and Chris still holding hands, they didn’t care, and that was fine with John.


End file.
